


Tokens of Trunk

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fluff, M/M, highschool!destiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-09
Updated: 2016-02-09
Packaged: 2018-05-19 07:32:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5958961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel leaves notes in Dean's locker. Oblivious to the whole thing, Dean lets Castiel rot in the corner, just waiting for things to get better. He tries to help Dean through some bad times.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tokens of Trunk

**Author's Note:**

> for: metallicadean on tumblr

_Pain, without love. Pain, I can't get enough. Pain, I like it rough ‘cause I'd rather feel pain than nothing at all._

Dean walks down the hallway with his head low. His hands are gripping his backpack straps, pulling them in over his chest. He makes sure to stick to the right side of the hallway, to duck out of the way of people. If he does so happen to bump into someone, he mutters his apologies. With a subtle wave, he tries to let go of the look on their face.

It’s been a long day and he just wants a break before his favorite class. It’s the only one he never skips, the only one he’s dedicated to. The only one he actually has a decent grade in. But life’s tough when you’re a brooding teenager. Huffing and puffing as he paces the halls to his destination, he tries not to think about going home. 

He has his music on the highest possible volume, not hearing when a teacher begins calling his name. A hand reaches his shoulder and surprises him. Mrs. Naomi waits with her hands at her hips as he turns and takes only one earbud out.

"Mr. Winchester." she states in a snobby tone, her nose stuck up to the air. Dean nods his acknowledgement, waiting for her shrill voice to continue. "You'll be quite surprised to hear that you've flunked the last test. This is the third one in a row. I may have to resort to calling your father and arranging after school tutoring. How does that sound?" she ends this with a lopsided smirk, feeling proud of herself.

"Oh please, call him. He doesn't give any more of a shit than I do." Dean scoffs and sticks the earbud back, turning and adjusting his backpack. What keeps the smile on his face is the look of horror he receives from her. The hand that she places at her chest with a gasp to accompany it.

She tries to stop him again, but to no avail. A young man steps up from behind her to apologize on behalf of Dean, of which he does not see. He lets the woman know that it isn’t his fault for being the way he is. She feels insulted for the boy to just insert himself into the situation, and she walks away with a brisk step. 

When she’s gone, the boy stares longingly at Dean. He slumps against the lockers to the side of him. He then slips a small note from his left pocket and sighs, almost dreamily, as he slips it into one of the slots of Dean’s locker. His hand rests at the top of them with sorrow, wishing with all its might that it could take back what it just did. But the boy feels so strongly for the other, and the outcome is sure to be a big one. 

He meets the rest of the flunkies out by the old swimming pool room, never used. Some like to sneak in there and do some graffiti, some like to go and do some other people. Although they're junkies and sex freaks, they don't smoke. Most of them have addicts for parents, so they've made a pact to never do drugs or drink alcohol. The only people at school that do all that is the cool kids. The football players and cheerleaders, the ones who take all that they have for granted.

Either way, Dean watches as some enter the room and some don't, they just linger. He slumps down the side wall and opens his bag. His laptop is safe inside, no damage, which he couldn't be happier about. It's his most prized possession, what he receives the most comfort in. Besides his brother, there are so many more people on the internet who accept him. They don't feel pity, but they validate him. They don't break him down, grab his collar, yell at him with the twinge of alcohol on their tongues. It's safe there.

He makes his rounds through his friends, messages them back, makes a post or two. He sits like that until the next hour, the one that he actually enjoys. He likes it even though he gets picked on for it. So what if he chose to be in Culinary Arts? Fuck those guys, at least he gets to be in a room full of chicks for a whole hour and they don't. Even though he never pays attention to those snobby rich bitches.

He sets himself in the back, just far enough to be away from everyone, yet close enough to pay attention. Today is the fourth week of the second semester, people get to choose whether they want to drop any classes. There are some new faces, and one that shines bright over all others. He comes in late, panting and struggling to keep his massive bag up. He hands the teacher a slip and says he couldn't find the classroom in time. She furrows her eyebrows, yet take the slip and places it on her desk, where she's sure to forget it.

His eyes dart around the room for a seat, the only one he finds fit though, is the one next to Dean. Their eyes only meet for a fraction of a second, because Dean focuses his eyes right back to the front of the room. He can't let himself distract from this, not from what it all means.

Many times throughout the hour they would both reach for a knife or whisk at the same time. If their hands were to tough, they would both sinch away. Sometimes one would hand something to another. The thanks was always implied. They were making Dean's favorite - apple pie. Sometimes he would reach for something he knew wasn't in the recipe, and Castiel would give him a side eye. He would just return with a smirk directed at the ingredient. He knew how he liked his pie.

“Mrs. Missouri, I think I’d like to present to the class.” he says finally, his apron lightly dusted with flour from the dough. He knows he’s always the first one to finish, but he’s so eager to fill such big shoes. 

“Alright Dean, but this is the last time this week. Tomorrow, we’ll let someone else take a stab,” she wields her large knife, “at it, hmm?” the class erupts in a murmur of non-committal laughter. 

She swipes her hand at them and encourages Dean to start cutting his pie. He sets one down for the boy at his table first, and then himself. The boy makes sure not to start eating until everyone has their own serving. He wants to know that Dean is paying attention to his reaction. He expects the most from Dean. 

Once Dean is settled back into the chair next to him, he cuts a large bite and shoves it into his mouth. He lets off a small moan, one that he has no desire to try and fake. His eyelids flutter as his eyes practically travel to the back of his head. The warm bliss of apples - and a pinch of cinnamon - caress his tongue. He chews as fast as he can whilst still enjoying the piece, not realizing the look he’s receiving from Dean.

“Hungry much?” Dean asks. He lets off a small burst of mirth and hands Castiel a napkin. 

“Yeah, I didn’t eat lunch so this is like heaven. Not that it wouldn’t be if I would’ve eaten the school lunch, because your cooking seems to be the top of the class with what I’ve seen and-” Dean starts laughing again, so Castiel slouches with red inching up his fair face. 

“That’s quite the compliment, man. Thanks, means a lot.” he nods his head to affirm his words, taking another bite of his pie. Castiel does the same, a smaller one this time. He’s conscious of the way Dean looks at him, waiting for his reaction. He doesn’t know how he can manage to up the last one, so he just rubs his stomach. 

The bell rings before anyone can finish, which they’re both happy and aggravated about. They groan about the inconvenience of not finishing their pie, but grab their bags and plates to get out anyway. Dean falls back in the hall to slump his back against the wall. He puts up his guard, thinks about what he’s going to do when he gets home. What monstrous side of his father is going to be waiting for him today. 

Castiel sees him and goes up to him. Dean glances up at the boy looking at him solemnly and sighs. His jaw twitches when he grinds it down. This worries Castiel. He knows this may not be his place but he also feels too entitled, like in a way, it’s his job to help. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, looking down at his feet. “I know he can be down. But he can have his up days, granted very few of them.” he twiddles his fingers.

“How do you know all this? What makes you think you can even have an opinion on it?” Dean’s eyes are hard, and he’s standing up and off the wall he was once on. His arms are pulled back and his eyebrows are furrowed. He’s enraged at Castiel.

“I saw him one day. He had to come pick you up after you’d been in a fight, and he wasn’t very happy. I heard you yelling about him drinking while driving, worried about the safety of someone named Sammy. I wanted to come break it all up but he grabbed you by the back of the neck and you were gone in a flash.” Dean’s eyes soften. He feels so ashamed that anyone had to see it. That someone as innocent looking as Castiel would be that person. His shoulders fall and his hands aren’t clenched, making them red and not white with tension. 

“Just - forget about it. Okay? It’s nothing you need to worry yourself with. You don’t get it anyway.” He shakes his head, shoulders his bag and heads out on the walk to his house. Castiel tries and fails to stop him. 

He watches Dean leave, and takes out a sheet of paper. He begins writing in his clean and articulate handwriting. He doesn’t know how often Dean checks his locker, but that doesn’t matter anyway.

Dean reaches home and tries his best not to let the door slam. He finds his brother in the kitchen, set at the table with a mound of books. They exchange looks, and Dean rolls his eyes. It’s another one of those days in the Winchester household. 

He finds his dad in in his own bedroom, splayed across his bed. Not even the right room, the right side of the house. He makes the bed around his dad, not even bothering to wake him up. At least the man should be comfortable. He picks up a half-empty beer bottle, making sure not to spill its contents. Maybe today he’ll wake up and realize he has two kids he has to take care of. Just once, Dean wants him to do something more than make up for his mistakes. Wants him to go farther, but he doesn’t want to push. Not his place.

At home, Castiel’s nanny is waiting for him in the kitchen with his lunch. She sees his face and immediately crosses the floor to shove him to her chest. She sets him down at the counter and hands him a plate full of food. He pushes it away, and that’s when Meg knows it’s a bigger mess than she previously thought. 

“What happened, my baby?”

“I tried today, Meg. I did, and he just brushed me off. This is what I feared would happen. The fact that he’s such a good cook doesn’t do anything but help my case.”

“Well, did he read your notes, chicken?” she says, putting a hand over his. 

“He never checks his damn locker. And I’m getting real tired of it. And stop calling me chicken.” he says, whining at the end.

“Alright, couyon, but you better listen up. Maybe it isn’t your place. Don’t try anything else stupid until he reads your notes. Did you write any new ones?” He hands her the one he wrote not even ten minutes ago. She reads it and sighs. “If that doesn’t get his attention, nothing will.” 

At school the next day, Dean makes a pit stop at his locker to leave his computer there. A couple of papers fall out, and instead of shoving them back in like he usually would, the handwriting catches his eye. He unfolds each of them and stacks them in his hands. He locks his locker back and heads off to the next class. He doesn’t read them until he’s settled into his seat. The first one reads:

I know you may not hear this often, but you are appreciated. I may not know you very well, but you glow will potential. You walk into gym class with your head hung low. I wish you wouldn’t do that, I love looking at your freckles. How they just compliment your eyes and eyelashes so perfectly. One eyelash for every freckle. They go together like sun and moon, one reflecting off the other. I am but a shadow in your presence.   
c

Dean takes a big breath as he takes it all in, but swoops right into the next one.

You may not think I understand, but I do. My father was never with me as a child, and he’s still not with me. My mom would always talk about him being the best man she could ever ask for. But I think that’s total bullshit. I just want you to be thankful that you have a father, and I’ll be thankful that I have a mother. I want you to understand that your situation is not one that anyone would ask for, so ask for it to be better. Don’t tell him that he needs to be a better father. Ask that he does. Tell him how disappointed you are in him. How she would be. You deserve better than that. You deserve the world.  
c

He knows exactly who it is. He wants to rip him to shreds, but then again he wants to just break down in Castiel’s arms. By the end of the class, he’s thought it all over. His eyes are glossed over, he’s shaking with anticipation. He wants to find the other boy as fast as possible. When the bell rings, he practically bounces out of his seat and out the door. 

He waits by his own locker, hoping Castiel will soon pass by. It’s lunch hour, so he has time. He holds the letters to his mouth and his leg shakes, and he’s on the verge of messaging everyone online to tell them about it. But as soon as he starts to open his locker to get his laptop, Castiel rounds the corner. Dean doesn’t let him make it another step before he’s in front of him. 

He backs him up, looking into his eyes as he turns him around and continues pushing him out of the building’s doors. Castiel doesn’t struggle, and walks even faster than Dean is pushing him, so eager to start the conversation. He’s already noticed the paper in his hands. They reach the side of the building and stop.

“Thank you.” it’s the only words Dean can think of. He had a whole speech prepared, wanted to rip Castiel a new one with his words. He starts crying, his head falls and his hands rise to his eyes. His back shakes and his weeps seep through the creases of his fingers. Castiel doesn’t do much put pat him gingerly.

Castiel doesn’t expect him to leap to him, clutch his neck and thank him. He thanks him until his sobs overcome his voice. They fall to their knees together, and eventually it all comes rushing to Cas. Every feeling he has for Dean. He pulls Dean’s legs over his own and cradles him. He cards his fingers through Dean’s hair and stops at the base of his neck. 

They talk for a while. Longer than lunch hour. It’s not until Culinary Arts class that Dean has the courage to get up to leave. Castiel asks if he’s sure, partly because he doesn’t want to let go of Dean. On the way to the class, Dean tells Cas the short version of the story about his mom. How she used to bake and cook for him all the time when he was little. 

How he likes to just flip through her cook books. How he keeps a picture of her on the counter while he cooks at home. During class, they talk a lot about their parents. When they both reach for the same thing, they let their hands linger. When they hands stuff to each other, they intentionally place one hand over the other’s. 

This doesn’t go unnoticed by Mrs. Missouri. She whispers to herself, “Saw it coming. Just not as fast. Their energy is stronger than I once thought.” she snaps her witch fingers. And at each the Winchester and Novak home, everything is okay. Sam has food in his belly. Ms. Novak stops taking as much hours at work. Dean’s dad signs up for AA meetings over the phone as he rids his fridge of beer.


End file.
